


The Gallant

by The Stephanois (ballantine)



Series: freedom [1]
Category: Little Women (2019)
Genre: Other, Queer Themes, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22069111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/The%20Stephanois
Summary: When they were still almost young enough to get away with it, the two of them once stole away to the the attic while her sisters were in town one warm spring afternoon and dressed him as a fifth March sister.
Relationships: Theodore Laurence/Josephine March
Series: freedom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611067
Comments: 34
Kudos: 166





	The Gallant

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of fic therapy for me, wherein I wrestle with two strong convictions I had upon leaving Little Women at the theater: 1) Jo is queer and 2) Jo/Laurie forever, man.
> 
> This is a ficlet, not a thesis statement. Embrace the ambiguity.

There were moments when being close with Laurie felt just the same as cozying up to one of her sisters. He was as vain (but dutiful) as Meg, to be sure, and as affectionate as Beth; he certainly could be as selfish as Amy. But most of all, he felt like herself, an extension of all her best parts, the boyish doppleganger of her soul.

From the beginning he felt like someone she'd known all her life.

When they were still almost young enough to get away with it, the two of them once stole away to the Pickwick Club quarters in the attic while her sisters were in town one warm spring afternoon, and dressed him as a fifth March sister. She does not remember discussing it, nor him protesting.

A caught breath, a cherished and devoted silence. As she drew out the old dress and costume paint, some strange emotion seemed to take hold of them both.

Laurie's eyes darkened as she drew the dress over his head, the laughter fading into something more weighty. Her fingers trembled slightly as she dabbed them into the paint – but then, his throat bobbed at the first touch to his cheek. They were both perhaps a little nervous, though neither could say why.

They had no wig in the costume trunk, but they quickly discovered his dark tumble of curls could be tamed and pinned in such a way as to resemble an artful up-do, or as near as either of their unpracticed eyes could judge.

When it was done, Jo sat back and considered him.

“Well?” he asked after a few seconds, tone warm but hiding its nerves poorly, “Do I pass muster? If we were to walk arm-in-arm through town, would everyone assume I was some March cousin visiting from a far away land?”

His high cheekbones were as receptive to rouge as Meg's; his pink lips could pout like Amy's. And in the long gown his smile was as shy as any Beth had ever worn while edging into a room sideways around new company.

Yes, there were moments when Laurie felt like he could be one of her sisters. But then they'd turn a corner and he was nothing at all like one.

She curled up on the floor around his statuesque figure; he raised an arm obligingly, and she put her head back in his lap, so that she could still gaze up at him. She was fascinated by the transformation of his features, how it was managed by so small an effort. His neck seemed longer, his clavicles terribly vulnerable.

He bit into a smile. “Do you like it, or are you merely laughing at me secretly – ”

“I like it,” she said, reaching up to touch his jaw. He shut his mouth and let her, eyes widening slightly. “I like it very much. Do you?”

He laughed slightly, just a puff of air against her wrist. His hand fumbled off the floor and landed on her hair. He said, “I dare not let the fellows see me like this, they call me Dora as it is.” But he seemed pleased by Jo's regard.

“I would defend your honor,” she said at once.

“My honor? I like the sound of that.”

“No one shall call you anything but Laurie, not unless you wish them to.”

“You don't call me Laurie.” Softly said; not a rebuke.

_I'm different, of course._ The words sprang easily to her lips, so self-evident was the claim. She drew her hand back into her lap and continued gazing at him pensively.

The truth was, she  _was_ different. It was a difference acknowledged openly by everyone who knew her, but also denied; a phase, a passing fancy; a quirk of her youth. Many would see her grow out of it and take her place in the ranks of other women, in whatever capacity she was able. They did not understand how unnatural the notion was, how alien she felt under the pressure of such expectations.

“Oh, Teddy,” she murmured.

He smiled. “Exactly.”

There were moments she thought she came close with him, where she set the play and frivolity aside and thought she could love Laurie the way they say all women were meant to love a man. But she could never get it right. 

He would try to put on the gallant in a serious way, and she'd flinch. Half-frantic, she'd turn the moment into a great joke, and he usually went along, because joking with her was still loads more fun than being half-sincere with anyone else.

In the warm, sunny attic that day in the spring, she thought she finally understood a little. She didn't need Laurie like this – though he was beautiful and mysterious in the guise – but she would have him as he was on any given day. As a boy, because it was his boyness she was enamored with.

The jollity and boldness, the freedom.

_She_ wanted to be the gallant. She wanted to be the one who dropped to one knee and pressed a reverent kiss upon an outstretched hand, a hand that might waver for delicate want of her. A hand she could cherish and protect and perhaps occasionally tease. 

To imagine she and Laurie as fellows together – would that not be capital?


End file.
